


Catalyst

by InsanityRule, Legs (InsanityRule)



Series: A Modicum of Humanity Makes Everything Harder [17]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A whole lot of swearing, Chronic Migraines, Five is a little touch starved, Gen, Health Issues, Jason's the rated R version of Robin so like, anything that really goes with that honestly, chronic pain not specified
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2020-11-26 03:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/InsanityRule, https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: Jason's non-recovery is weighing heavily on the Wayne household until Five takes matters into his own hands.





	1. Chapter 1: Five and Dick

There's a sharp cry from the other room, but the frequency of this particular pitch and duration is commonplace. Five watches someone (Bruce) with a wet washcloth rush by him in the hallway, flinging droplets of water on to the floor. There's another, longer keen, brimming with distress, and then a whimper followed by soothing whispers.

He passes by with a fabricated casualness, deliberately slowing his steps so he can watch Bruce hold the cloth to Jason's forehead and eyes. Jason's hands are clenched so tightly the skin over his knuckles is bone white.

Third migraine this week, tenth this month. The doctors recommended another MRI, Bruce recommended they actually find something to help, and Jason just wants it to stop. No one talks about what that means. Five's heard enough to understand what he's really asking for.

_ There's other ways _ , he's said,  _ things doctors don't know _ , but every time he even looks at Bruce he's met with a hostile glare.

_ Some things you can't take back _ , Bruce tells him, more than once, and with enough underlying threat in his tone to keep Five's nose clean.

The boy, Patrick, is too young to contribute anything substantial, but Five still sees him dragging soft blankets and pillows behind him as he approaches Jason's room. At first Jason feigned gratitude. Nowadays, he's just too tired, too stressed and tense, to spare the boy's feelings.

He stands out of everyone's way to continue his observations. Bruce stops Patrick at the door with a gentle hand on his shoulder. There's tension in his shoulders, but none in his voice.

"I don't think those will help right now, Pat."

"He's still sick," Patrick insists, his flawed logic telling him he's right.

"He needs quiet," Bruce says. He bends to Patrick's level, implying a false equality to their approaches. "And he has blankets. But thank you. I'll be sure he knows you wanted to help."

Patrick is on the cusp of understanding, and it's harder to ply him with words alone. Bruce hugs him, and Five holds his breath, tensing his shoulders to mimic the pressure, and then Bruce is approaching with the boy in tow. "He'd like to go to Dick's apartment if you'd be willing to take him."

Five looks to the boy, the boundless, bottomless well of questions swimming in his eyes, and to the bags under Bruce's. He false starts, swallows the blunt way he wants to phrase his concerns, and leans in to whisper. "If he asks, what do I say?"

Bruce's patience for Five isn't as vast as it is for Patrick, but he tries. They're all trying. "Just don't scare him."

_ Again _ , Five thinks.  _ Don't scare him again _ .

He'll try.

-

The boy has a habit of fidgeting when he wants to ask something. Five doesn’t have the driving experience required to glance over, but his periphery is filled with the little twitches as Patrick fiddles with the zipper pulls on his backpack.

“Is Jason dying?”

_ Tread lightly. Don’t scare him.  _ “The doctors haven’t found anything to suggest he is.”

“So why isn’t he better?”

“Sometimes,” Five sucks in a breath, “sometimes people don’t get better.”

“Oh.” Fiddle fiddle fwip. “Can’t the doctors help?”

“They’ve done all they can.”

Five knows it was the wrong thing to say, but the real cruelty is not being able to confirm it until he’s pulling into the visitor space nearest to Dick’s apartment complex. He doesn’t know how Bruce looks at this small person and knows how to make him feel okay when someone he cares about is falling apart. The only blessing is he’s stopped crying.

It would’ve been better if he’d never started, but Five doesn’t have that good a track record.

Somehow Dick maintains his sunny optimism even in the face of an upset child. “Hey big man,” he bends onto one knee and claps a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, “go set up on the couch. I have a movie marathon with your name on it.”

Patrick nods and wipes his snotty nose on his sleeve. He spares Five the barest of glances, lacking any of the hopefulness he had mere minutes ago, and he slumps into the apartment.

“Jason is suffering from another acute onset migraine.”

“I know, Bruce called me.” Dick lets the optimistic mask slip now that Patrick isn’t present. Everyone looks so tired. “Patrick looks upset.”

“I assume because he is.”

“He had questions?”

“Several.”

Dick cringes. “How did you answer them?”

“Vaguely,” Five thinks so at least, “but maybe lacking some of your characteristic optimism.”

“Right,” Dick looks over his shoulder, and if Five tilts his head just so he can see Patrick in profile among the couch pillows and a throw blanket, playing the part of the crestfallen child perfectly. “I have a final in a couple days, but Babs may be able to watch him if Jason’s still not better.”

_ He won’t be _ , Five thinks, but he’s used up his tactless points for the day. “We’ll see.”

-

“I need you to keep an eye on Jason.”

Five glances left and down, asking the floor,  _ did he truly mean to address me? _ but knowing it must be true. No one else needs to be told to do this; no one else avoids the East wing quite so thoroughly.

“You’re leaving.”

“I have something I need to take care of. Alfred will be assisting me.”

"Okay."

Five isn’t told to follow Bruce to the Batcave, but he does so because he is also not told  _ not  _ to follow. The sleek surface of Bruce’s armor, marred by nicks and scrapes but still so sturdy, glints in the artificial light as he pulls on each piece and fastens them tightly. He and Alfred have a ritual that doesn’t involve Five, and it’s during this routine that he’s able to slip close and eavesdrop on his night plans.

“Ra’s and his people may have been spotted entering Gotham on a Ferry late last night, sir.”

“Are there any rumblings about a new source of Lazarus water?”

“What is that?” Five says. He bites his tongue but his voice carries; the two of them boggle at him, having not realized he was even there. “Lazarus water. What is it?”

Bruce side-eyes, and Five braces himself to be sheltered. “It’s dangerous. People have died because of it.”

A calculated non-answer. It tells him so much, yet effectively dodged his question.

“You’ll need to make haste, Master Bruce,” Alfred sweeps the conversation away neatly as he hands over the cowl. Five takes the hint being thrown at him and slinks back upstairs to cater to Jason’s needs.

-

"I'm afraid you're going to have to cut your evening short, Master Bruce."

"Why?" He has a clear visual of the group in question, though the setting is making proper identification difficult. "I'm not finished."

"I'm aware, sir, but there's something urgent you need to take care of here."

"Jason," he barely breathes. A million tangents take off in a spiderweb in his head.

"Yes, but not in the way you think, sir."

He doubts that, but he swings off his perch and down towards the Batmobile. "I'll be right there."

He'll need to thank Jim, and generously, because the lack of care he exercises returning to the Manor in record time most definitely broke a few traffic laws if not anything more serious.

Alfred hasn't even shut the back entrance before Bruce is upon him, cowl off and askew, shouting, "where is he!?" and a few expletives he won't remember. "Alfred-"

"You should have a word or two with our numbered friend," he says testily, "about his whereabouts this evening, and their relation to this."

He hands over a heavy glass vial, the kind with an old, acid washed stopper with a decorative top. It's nearly empty, but the salty, almost stingy smell of the remaining liquid won't be a scent Bruce forgets for the rest of his life. "Where is he."

"Do be careful not to take things too far," Alfred says, with a clear understanding of Bruce's inability to do so. "His reasons-"

"Aren't justified." In Bruce's mind he hurls the glass at the nearest hard surface even as he hands it back to Alfred with care. "And Jason-"

"Still in his room last I checked."

Bruce's legs carry him forward through the fog of rage until he's grabbing Five's baggy shirt and sending him into the nearest wall. "What did you do."

"Nothing," he looks down, avoiding eye contact, clearly lying.

"You aren't in a position with leniency," Bruce punches the wall beside Five's head, and the force dents the drywall in the shape of his armored fist.

"Physical threats don't work on me." He doesn't spit, he isn't even mad, just matter-of-fact. How this man wearing his face can be so different baffles and enrages him in equal parts.

"I can't reconcile how someone so smart would do something so stupid." He jabs at Five's insecurities, tears at them without caring just how long the sting will last.

(He does care, and he'll regret this later when tempers cool, but this wasn't some run of the mill stupid act.)

"He was in pain."

"It wasn't your call to  _ make _ ," Bruce shakes him. It only makes him madder when Five doesn't react.

"I didn't," he breathes, "I just gave him the option."

Bruce releases Five with a snarl, hears the calamity the suddenness of his absence caused, but he can't bear to look at him.

He finds Alfred standing outside Jason's door. "He gave Jason the Lazarus water."

They're both aware, he just had to feel the words in his mouth. Too emotional. He'll need to practice before people start asking what's become of Five.

"We'll take any consequences head on, sir." He grasps the door handle and opens it for Bruce.

Jason's standing. He's crying; his face is full of relief.

He wants to tear Five in half with his bare hands. He wants to hug Jason and marvel at the sturdy way he's holding himself after months of needing to sit after traversing a long hallway. Bruce doesn't do either of these.

"It worked," Jason chokes out. He spreads his arms wide, flexes his underused muscles. "It really worked."

"How do you feel?" Bruce cautions. He motions towards the bed, and Jason complies enthusiastically, just because he can. "Your head-"

"Good.  _ Really  _ good." He flexes his fingers in the air and his bare toes in the rug by his bedside. "More than good. Where's Five?"

"Not here. He didn't have the right to give you that," Bruce says harshly. There's a scuff of hardwood outside the door. "But we can't change the past."

"What's so wrong about it anyway? I feel  _ great _ ." Jason throws himself back against his mattress and sighs. "Gah, it's gonna take me weeks of training to get back to where I was. When can I start?"

Bruce shares a look with Alfred, and the unspoken agreement between them helps cement his decision, but it won't make this easier. He sits on the edge of the bed, and Jason sits up. He hates the worry he's caused, and the inevitable heartbreak.

"Bruce, when can I start?"

"I don't think that's a good idea just yet," he hazards. "We don't know what lasting effects the Lazarus water will have on you."

"Well, yeah but," he barks out a broken laugh. He already knows. "But I'm better. I  _ feel _ better."

"I know."

"And, I mean," he claps a hand over his chest, "I'm Robin. I gotta get back out there. I have a  _ fan club _ to worry about, you know?"

"That's Tim's role now."

"But as Red Robin, right?" He looks to Alfred, to Bruce, he can't like what he sees. "I mean, that's his  _ thing _ , and this is mine.  _ I'm _ Robin." He sniffs. "He, he can't even fit in the stupid  _ armor _ . It's  _ mine _ , because I'm-I'm Robin. I'm Robin. Right?"

"Jason-"

"Are you taking it away from me or not!"

Bruce blinks. He sees it there, festering just beneath the surface. "You should get some rest," he says mechanically. "Recovery, even with the Lazarus water, isn't instantaneous."

He feels Alfred's hand on his back, hears the snick of the door as it's closed behind him. "Alfred, did you see it too?"

"Yes, but anger isn't outside his wheelhouse even without the water's influence, sir."

"It felt darker." Bruce huffs. "He had no right, Alfred."

"Now don't you  _ start _ . We both know there's a reason you had the sample in this house in the first place." Alfred reigns himself in and adjusts his suit cost. "Apologies, sir."

"No, you're right." Five is scarce; he'll have to hunt him down for a proper apology later. "Everything's a mess."

"You'll have to take your own advice, Master B, and get some rest."

There's a clatter behind Jason's closed door, and Bruce knows what they'll find before he wrenches the door open, but his stomach still bottoms out when they find the window wide open and Jason nowhere to be seen.

-

Dick  _ was  _ sound asleep, but someone is pounding the holy hell out of his apartment door. Babs rolls over and her hand smacks his chest, and then nearly his face, no,  _ actually  _ hits his face.

"Ow, Babs okay, I'll get it." He feels around for his glasses and blinks the world into focus. "Better be some sort of  _ fire _ ."

It is, but not the hot kind. It would have been kind of funny if Jason was drenched or something, but he just looks  _ pissed _ .

Wait. "Jason? How the heck did you get here?"

"I walked."

"You, holy crap that's like,  _ five miles. _ Are you okay?" He ushers him inside, and he's got a sick sort of heat coming off him, but it might just be the rage. "How the heck are you even upright?"

"Bruce was keeping a cure from me," he snaps, "and now that I took it and I can go back to my duties he won't  _ let  _ me."

"Holy, okay, um, what was the cure?"

"Some weird water. Lacrimose? Something like that."

_ Lazarus water _ , Dick thinks. Ho boy. "Okay, well, it's sort of  _ dangerous _ -"

"YOU KNEW ABOUT IT TOO?"

"Shhhh shh, shush. Hey, can we do this at a lower volume? Babs is trying to sleep." He hesitates, then claps his hands on Jason's shoulders. "I didn't know he had any, I just heard about it over the years. It's  _ wild stuff. _ " Jason just feels so alive under his fingers, so sturdy and  _ himself _ again. "Gah, don't get all pissy, I'm going to hug you." And he does, tight. Whatever complex Jason has against affection doesn't surface. "Shady methods aside, God, I'm glad you're feeling better."

"He's not gonna let me be Robin anymore."

"You gotta give him a  _ chance _ , Jay. Jesus, this is a  _ big change _ ." He holds Jason out in front of him. "You're gonna ask me if you can crash here, aren't you?"

"I wasn't gonna give you a  _ chance _ , Dick."

"Jerk." He punches Jason's shoulder. There's something smouldering there under the surface, but it settles. "Guest bed's all yours."

He waits till Jason retreats to the second bedroom before making a call the Manor. "Hey, Jason's here."

"I had hoped," Bruce says. Dick can feel his relief through the phone. "How is he?"

"There's," he sighs, "something. I don't know how to describe it but-"

"He's angry."

"He was angry before." Dick glances over at the door to the guest room, but Jason snores like a bear. "He can crash here until the dust settles. I'll keep you posted."

"We'll get through this."

"Course," Dick scoffs. "I mean, we're family. We've gotten through worse."


	2. Chapter 2: Dick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back I guess! I don't know how or why but a story poured into my head, so this is gonna be another long one.

Dick was anticipating one of those epic, toss-and-turn kind of nights, but he sleeps like a baby to the gentle hum of their air conditioning kicking in every time the early summer heat seeps in through the walls.

He's always up first, and like almost every morning his covers have been stolen, and a good portion of the bed's real estate is being invaded by Babs' short but strong limbs. But when Dick is up he's up for good, and the second he slips off the bed she starfishes out and claims what he's apparently only been borrowing this whole time.

He'll start breakfast, something good and ego soothing to get Jason feeling more amenable to just  _ listen  _ for a hot second. They're in uncharted territory; using a little bit of caution is a good thing for everyone's sake.

If he's asked later he won't have a good answer, but Dick can't shake an instinct to open up the door to the second bedroom. And he's thankful he did, because Jason isn't there. Dick doesn't bother checking the nooks and crannies. The sheets are still tucked, and if he knows only one thing about Jason Todd it's that even his best attempts wouldn't look as good as Babs' faux-millitarian folds. He must’ve been faking.

"See something interesting?" Babs' calls to him. He finds her in one of his tee shirts dwarfing her sleep shorts, hair already pulled back in a messy bun.

Right. She was sleeping when Jason barged his way in last night. And unless Dick tells her otherwise there's a chance she doesn't even know he was here.

"Looking for a charger," he says. "Phone's almost dead, and I need to call Bruce about the kid."

"Mine's in the bedroom," she offers. If she can tell he's lying she doesn't give it away. As she walks to the kitchen she yells, "I'm making oatmeal!"

"Thank you!"

"Wasn't an offer!" But she laughs, and Dick does too. They both know she’ll make enough for two.

Dick launches himself back onto the bed and takes a second to savor the smell of their sheets. Silver gave Babs some fancy, sandalwood smelling bath kit thingy when she got into her internship for the summer. Dick just got her two pounds of this berry licorice she's always squirreling away in the cabinet she doesn't think he knows about.

(She liked the licorice better.)

He calls Bruce on the secure line, and gets a response on the second ring. "Guess you didn't sleep either."

"You slept poorly?" Bruce asks through a yawn.

"No," Dick sighs, "but I wish I had. Jason split in the middle of the night."

"It's not your fault," Bruce says softly.

"I know." He rubs his eyes. "Holy hell, this is a mess. Look, Babs has her first day at her internship today and I promised I'd drive her so she can avoid the bus. I'll come by after that."

"You don't have to do that."

"Are you kidding?" he scoffs. "If that little punk wrecks havoc on my watch Jim will never let me forget it. Plus I promised Tim my undivided attention sometime this week. I think the kid's feeling a little cast aside."

"I can't imagine why," Bruce sighs. "I'm sorry you're getting dragged into the middle of this."

"Family'll do that to you," he says breezily.

"Dick?" He hears from the kitchen, and soon after the pattern of Babs' feet on the hallway's hardwood. "Did you eat all the Poptarts?"

"I thought you were eating oatme-oh. Bruce, I gotta go." He sits up in bed and tosses his phone aside. "So, uh, we should probably talk."

"About your Poptart binge?"

"No," he rubs a hand over his face, and shoves his glasses up onto his forehead, "so, first thing is, well, I guess you didn't wake up so-"

"-Dick."

"-right, okay." He takes a deep breath. "Jason was here. He’s better. Like,  _ all  _ the way better."

She blinks. "Shouldn't you be happier?"

"It's a mess," he groans, and flops onto his back. "He wants to go back on patrol like,  _ immediately _ . Bruce won’t let him.” He puts his hands behind his head. “What do you know about Lazarus water?"

"About as much as any other Gothamite," she admits. "I know it's powerful. I hear it's dangerous."

"It does something," Dick struggles to find the right words. "There's, in Jason's eyes last night I could see it. I don't know what it was, but," he sighs, "maybe he took too much. I don't know how much is too much. Alfred had to take some ages ago, but it didn't do this to him."

“How’d he get Lazarus water? He could barely stand.”

“Bruce had some,” he shakes his head. “I don’t know why.” But then again, he probably does. “I offered to let Jason stay here until things blew over, but I guess he fleeced us and left.”

“Sounds like Jason,” she jokes, but neither of them laugh.

“I know you have your orientation and everything,” he starts, “and it’ll be a busy day, but-”

“I’ll keep an ear to the ground.”

“Thanks.”

“And I’ll look into the Lazarus water, see if I can dig something new up.” She flops onto the bed beside him, and he loops an arm around her waist. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“It’s not just him I’m worried about.”

-

Dick knows he’s going to get a side eye or two from Alfred for parking his bike more or less on the front steps. He doesn’t have a good excuse either, because honestly, what’s there to be worried about? Jason’s well equipped to take care of himself.

When he closes his eyes he can see the anger simmering behind Jason’s eyes, and he hastens his steps.

It isn’t Alfred who meets him in the foyer, but Tim, and the scowl he tries to level Dick with is precious. “Just what did I do to  _ you _ , Tim?”

“The Manor is in an  _ uproar _ , Dick,” he snits. Really, really precious. “You miss everything since you live halfway across town.”

“Jason showed up at my place,” he says, clapping Tim on the shoulder. “I know the jist. I’m here to figure out the rest with Bruce.”

“He took  _ my  _ bag, Dick. I did a lot of research to find the perfect one-”

“So he knows you have good taste,” he interrupts, giving Tim’s shoulder another squeeze. Tim’s frustration deflates into naked stress. He gets it; it’s been hard on everyone. “He took all of our Poptarts,” he explains, and Tim snorts. “We need to let him cool off for a little while. After we’re done talking I’ll come find you. We’ll do whatever you want.”

“Driving,” is Tim’s split-second response, and Dick swallows his fear. “Alfred let me move one of the cars when it was in the way last week, Dick. I’m getting better.”

“Sure,” he nods. “Fine, we’ll drive somewhere. Maybe Bruce can buy an old airstrip, and then there won’t be anything for you to run into.”

“I have the theory down!” he calls after Dick, and he shakes his head. “Dick! I’m serious! I aced the permit test!”

“I know,” he calls back over his shoulder. Under his breath he mutters, “practice makes perfect, I guess.”

He means to go to the cave, but he finds Bruce in his office, handling a mostly empty glass bottle and sighing. It feels like an intrusion, but Bruce beckons him closer with a single look.

“Tim’s in a snit over his bag,” he offers, and Bruce chuffs.

“It’s something to focus on,” Bruce says.

“Well, I’m going to need a day or two to get over the loss of my Poptarts.” Dick shakes his head. “I really hope you figured out a game plan because I’ve got nothing.”

“No,” Bruce sighs. He sets the bottle on the table and spins it slowly a couple times. “I considered calling Jim, but-”

“It’s still early,” Dick says, “and, you know, Jason knows how to take care of himself.” He pulls back one of the heavy wood chairs opposite Bruce’s desk and drops into it heavily. “Why do you have Lazarus water?”

“Dick,” he sighs.

“Bruce,” Dick counters.

“Five jumped the gun,” Bruce explains. “I only kept it from Jason because we weren’t done researching. I had every intention of telling him.”

“But only if it would work?” Bruce’s lips purse, and Dick grimaces. “Sorry.”

“We weren’t out of options.”

Dick shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe not us.” He gives the bottle a long, hard look. “I don’t think Jason felt the same way.”

“Clearly.” Bruce rubs his eyes hard, groaning. “I’m not going to waste time speculating. Jason used the water, and it changed him in some intrinsic way.”

“It did make him better,” Dick offers.

“There is that,” he sighs, dropping his hands to the desk surface. “I need to take care of a few things here. I don’t mean to keep dragging you into things, but-”

“Babs is keeping an ear to the ground,” Dick interrupts. “And after I miraculously survive a driving lesson with Tim I’ll go riding, see if I can spot him in some of his old haunts.”

“Thank you, truly.”

“It’s Jason,” Dick shrugs. “How much trouble can he get into in one day?”


	3. Chapter 3: Jason

Jason’s been staring in at the various knives on display at the pawn shop closest to the Narrows for the better part of ten minutes.

Two years as Robin warped his fighting style to Bruce’s liking, but he hasn’t forgotten everything he learned on the streets. Knives are essential, especially when he’s gotta be on some sort of list denying him any sort of firearm. Hell, Bruce probably put him on the list himself, the asshole. Just how does he expect Jason to defend himself out here?

The part where he doesn’t have any money isn’t exactly helping matters. Tim’s fancy-ass bag was  _ empty _ when Jason swiped it last night. And Dick should be  _ thanking  _ him, because he’s taking a huge hit not letting him have two dozen Poptarts in his kitchen. He’s just helping Dick make healthy life choices.

He gives the knives one last look, and shakes his head before moving on. He kicks a chunk of loose concrete along the crumbling sidewalk as he makes his way towards the center of the Narrows.

Unless things have gone completely sideways there should be a fence or two willing to hire a young, agile guy to transport product in the city. He’ll pick up a couple jobs, get a crappy amount of pay, and then he’s getting the serrated knife with the black handle. It’s a little flashy, but it’s also multipurpose. Cuts through belts, ropes, arms, whatever’s in his way won’t be for long.

And then, well…

Jason doesn’t know what comes next. If Bruce and company have their way he’ll be back in the Manor within the hour. If he has his way…

He kicks the chunk hard enough to send it sailing into the street and clunking against the hubcap of a tricked out muscle car. Jason takes off before finding out if the driver witnessed his happenstance harassment of the garish vehicle.

Fuck. Fuck Dick and his stupid non-swearing. There's no kid around to gape at him for using bad words. The car is fucking hideous.

Jason steps into the Flea and the dissonance between him and the actual residents hits him like a brick. Yesterday's clothes are still several levels cleaner than the street kids', and he's beginning to regret taking Tim's bag.  _ Someone's _ going to try to take it from him, and he isn't well prepared to keep that from happening.

He hightails it to the dingy office on the second level where he finds some nameless fence turning a piece of jewelry over while he examines the stone with a magnifier. Jason coughs twice, and the man nearly tosses the ring aside as he rights himself and glares at Jason from across the room.

"Get lost, kid."

" Looking for a job," Jason says, undeterred. "I'm small, I'm fast. I can get across town-"

"Not interested," he drawls.

Jason huffs. "You have a lot of product-"

"What product?"

"Do you want a mover or not!"

The guy doesn't react to Jason's outburst. He leans back a little in his chair, and grabs a stinking cigar from the half full ashtray to his right. He takes one puff, and shakes his head. "Not in the market for a narc, kid. Beat it."

"I'M NOT A NARC!"

Again, the guy doesn't blink. "Sure, kid. Whatever you say, but say it somewhere else."

Jason growls and something, something new and big and overwhelming starts building in his chest. He closes his eyes, watching a little private showing of himself grabbing the nearest blunt object and beating the man senseless.

But when he opens his eyes he hasn't moved. The guy is eyeing him a bit warily, so Jason topples a small tray table full of various gemstones and jewelry before taking off in a full sprint. He blocks out the shouts, the protest and upheaval in the lower sections of the Flea, and doesn’t stop, city a blur as he speeds by, until he’s sliding down the handrail towards the metro station and swiping his ride pass to anywhere that isn’t here.

Jason doesn’t allow himself to sit properly until the doors to the subway, northbound, have closed and the rest of the riders have stopped directly staring in favor of side-eyeing the freak hyperventilating in the middle of the aisle. He swallows, spit thick and sticky, and he slips through the crowds and into the next car, and the one after that, until he finds an empty seat near the back to throw himself onto.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back against the wall, and scrubs his face with his hands. That… whatever that was, it was the closest he’s  _ ever  _ been to actually,  _ genuinely  _ hurting someone. Maybe even killing, he’s not really sure how the fantasy was meant to end. But it scared him a little, continues to scare him as patrons hop off at their stops as they traverse through the downtown route.

After four stops Jason feels like he can breathe normally again, and as he examines himself in the reflection of the subway window he can admit that, yeah, he sort of looks like a narc now. Hell, Bruce would probably prefer it if Jason was actually ratting out criminals instead of trying to get hired by them.

But he’s not here to do things Bruce’s way, he wants to do this  _ his  _ way.

Whatever this is.

Jason gets off at the stop closest to Amusement Mile. It’s become a ghost town, and not even the relative wealth and safety of the nearby blocks (courtesy of Bruce Wayne, among others) bleeds into the mile proper. He breaks an already cracked window of an old warehouse and uses Tim's fancy bag to knock the rest of the glass to the factory floor below. To Tim's credit, the bag does hold up, and Jason slips inside unscathed.

He tries climbing up onto the catwalk, but his arms give out before he's even five feet off the ground. That would be his luck, having his prospects taken away not because Bruce is being a dick, but because he's too stupid to climb ladders without giving himself a concussion.

He's just tired, he tells himself. It's not wearing off. He's out of practice. That's  _ all _ .

Dick would make some smartass comment about climbing out two windows. Tim would go all book nerd on him and diagnose him with like, cancer or something. Patrick… Jason sighs. Patrick's antics would sit pretty well right now, because even in the summer there's a cool in the night air.

He finds a spot behind a desk in the manager's office to hunker down in. Poptarts don't make a good pillow, so he rests his head directly on the dingy floor and folds his hands over his stomach.

"I liked it," he whispers. And he doesn't know what to do with this information.

-

It's not that he was expecting or wanting or desperately waiting for one or several phone calls from the rest of the Manor's residents, but _ come on _ . He didn't even get _ one. _ And it's not like they shut off his phone, because he managed to order a pizza with Bruce's credit card information he still has written down in his note app.

It's just that it's an alarming lack of effort from the people who traditionally love to jam their concerns down his throat.

It's not like they need to be concerned anyway. Jason was right, his strength is back after a crappy night's rest. He's not throwing his own weight around just yet but he's capable of climbing stairs without taking a break halfway through.

He just feels like he deserves to gloat for being right, is all.

And it's not like Jason doesn't realize taking off isn't a long term strategy. It was never supposed to be. He'll give it a couple more days, long enough for them to think they need to worry, but not so long that he needs to consider any actual housing options. The warehouse isn't near as nice as a king sized bed, but it's better than some of the places he used to sleep.

He just needs to show them he can  _ do  _ this, really do this, without any help, and then he'll saunter back up the walkway and show off his new Lazarus body and all its capable of. He'll make them regret doubting him.

"Stop," he whispers harshly to himself. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts with mild success.

It’s just residual anger. That’s all. He needs to find a way to burn some of the ferocious energy bubbling in his chest.

He goes to the gym, the one he's had a membership for ever since he moved into the Manor. There's something about the atmosphere that urges him to push a bit harder, more so than lifting weights with  _ Tim _ ever will. He's not going to make any progress trying to prove himself against the bookworm.

It's been nearly half a year, but his card still works, his locker code is unchanged, and the clothes he left inside are about as smelly as a corpse, but Bruce splurged when he agreed to let Jason get this membership. Jason sends the laundry attendant a tight smile when he hands over the clothes and accepts a generic, crisp pair of clean ones in his size.

He bypasses the ocean of treadmills and a group of elderly people doing… something with kettlebells that he doesn’t recognize. There’s a smaller, more intensive set of weight machines on the mezzanine above the hot yoga studio. It’s usually full of near-steroidal dudebros adding a new layer onto their glamour muscles, but today it’s almost empty. There’s two guys (who, contrary to most of the members look like they actually  _ use  _ their muscles) at an overloaded power rack, and a woman doing a series of reps with a smaller set of leg weights.

Jason gives the pull up machine a once-over before loading it up with the appropriate amount of weights plus another ten pounds to push himself, but just a little bit. Sparing is one thing, he’ll have to dig up some fighting partners in the future, but if he’s going to be climbing up pipes and walls and anything else again anytime soon he needs to rebuild his upper body strength.

The first rep feels good, and his arms ache in a familiar, and not unpleasant way. Rep two is… fine. He’s feeling a little shaky already but no pain no gain.

He tries to do a third and his hands just stop. He doesn’t fall as much as he slowly slips off the machine, and the second his weight isn’t keeping the knee rest down it shoots up to the top with a clatter.

“Fuck,” he snaps. Everyone else in the room goes from staring at him to pointedly  _ not  _ looking at him. Jason closes his eyes, and takes a few shallow breaths.

And then he grabs the nearest circular weight and sends it flying through the mirrors on the South wall.

He feels this, this burning right in the center of his chest. In the spiderwebs of mirror still clinging together he watches the trio sprint to the stairs, and he grabs another circular weight, and hurls it at the back of the woman’s head-

And he breathes deeper, and opens his eyes. He blinks down at his hands, flexing his fingers around the phantom shape of the weights. In the corner of his vision he can see the woman switch to a slightly heavier weight, and the two men have moved onto one of the other pull up machines. He looks at himself in the unbroken mirror before speed walking down the stairs and into the communal showers.

Jason leaves his borrowed clothes in a little pile just outside one of the showers, and he stands under the warm stream for a long time trying to remember how to breathe.

-

His first phone call comes two days after, and he silences it after three rings. Whoever it is, he’s not in the mood.

After the call he gets a text, four words.  _ Meet at the pier. _

It’s from Five.

-

He goes because he’s not doing anything better with his time.

He goes because Five did him a huge solid, and even if he’s working on Bruce’s behalf he’s still the one that understood what Jason needed.

He goes because something is happening to him and he doesn’t understand it and he  _ definitely _ doesn’t know how to stop it, so he’s grasping at straws in the hopes that someone else will fix it for him without him having to try and give a name to it.

(He also goes because there’s food at the pier, and he’s hoping to make Five foot the bill. He can only use Bruce’s cards for so long.)

The best way to find Five in a crowded place is to locate the most secluded area and find some shifty looking guy in one of those everyday use cloth masks that cover the lower half of his face. And god damn, the guy does not disappoint. If Jason’s a narc, Five’s the one he’s meant to buy the drugs from.

Jason knows it’s rough being in Bruce’s shadow. He can’t imagine also having the guy’s face.

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Are you supposed to kidnap me or something?” Five jerks his head to the side, and Jason follows him down into the alley between a novelty shell shop and some place that sells kitschy nautical art. “This is a weird way to say yes, Five.”

“You’re relatively clean for having been on the streets.”

“I went to the gym,” he snaps.

“I was only checking,” Five says cryptically. “You look,” he pauses, “better.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to  _ Bruce _ .” He leans against the wall, and feels such an unfamiliar but  _ strong  _ urge to smoke that he checks his jacket for a pack and lighter. He hasn’t smoked in years. Jason cracks his knuckles and groans. “Something feels weird.”

“Something.”

“Something, like,  _ inside  _ me. I don’t know.” He looks over at Five, at his too loose shirt and bitten down nails. He looks like the one that’s sleeping rough. He looks like how Jason feels. “I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not,” he laughs, “I cannot be the best person to have this discussion with.”

“You’re the one that’s here.”

“They’re giving you space.”

“I don’t know if that’s what I want,” he admits, to Five and also himself apparently. Who knew?

“What do you want?”

“I want to be Robin,” he says. To go back to how it was, where he was just a reckless teenager swinging around the city. To before he got a nasty scar the size of his forearm, craftily hidden beneath his full head of hair by a very skilled surgeon.

Five won’t stop scrutinizing his answer. He blinks. “What do you want, Jason?”

“I want,” he scoffs, “didn’t I  _ just  _ tell you?”

“Did you mean it?” Jason grumbles under his breath. Five says it again, softly. “What do you want?”

“I want,” he huffs, “I want him to pay. Joker, those, those  _ goons  _ that cornered me. Bruce, he’s not letting me but, but they’re the ones that  _ did  _ this to me, really. And I want them to pay.”

Five tugs at the edge of his mask until it comes loose off one ear. He smiles. “Then let me help you.”


	4. Chapter 4: Tim

Tim sits sideways in one of the big armchairs in the drawing room with his laptop situated in his lap. He’s watching a video of a small, unassuming four door sedan as it slowly T-bones a car in a nearby parking space. He pauses and brings it back, and then lets it play again at 1.5 times the speed.

So, there’s some obvious room for improvement.

“Tim,” Bruce calls to him from the doorway, and he snaps his laptop shut and twists in his chair. “I don’t think watching yourself total a car is the best way to learn to drive.”

“Well, I,” he sputters, “I think there’s merit in reviewing the information to see where things went wrong.”

“I think we know where it went wrong,” Bruce says softly, and not unkindly. “I have a job for you, if you’re done.”

“I guess there are some obvious points in the data,” Tim mutters. He sets his laptop on a nearby table and clambers over the back of the chair. “What kind of job?”

Bruce takes him under an arm and starts steering him down the hall. “Well, seeing as the car you hit was  _ not  _ one of ours, due to your insistence you be allowed to practice in a real parking lot, I think a nice gesture would be an apology. By card.”

“Because you’re writing a check for the damages?”

“That might have something to do with it,” Bruce chuckles. “I’m not asking for a novel. Don’t overthink it.”

Easier said than done. But Tim has an impeccable sense of right and wrong, and hitting someone else’s car is most definitely  _ wrong _ . He accepts a thick sheet of Bruce’s personal stationary and one of his nicer pens (but not the  _ nicest  _ one because Bruce is sitting down to write up the check), and he claims a small corner of Bruce’s desk to write.

He pauses before he writes the first word. “Just what is my target audience?”

Bruce closes his eyes for a long, long minute. “The people whose car you hit.”

“I know that,” Tim scoffs. “I don’t want to  _ patronize _ anybody-”

“I’m asking you to write an apology.”

“And I want to do it right,” Tim insists.

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alfred said I should do it myself,” he mutters to himself, “but I insisted it be a teaching moment.”

“So,” Tim taps the pen against the desk a few times, “short and sweet.”

“That would be preferred.”

He starts writing, and sets the pen down again. "Bruce." Bruce sighs tiredly, but he nods. "What exactly was this car's remaining value?"

"Considering it's the owner's only vehicle, I'd assume invaluable."

"Right," he nods, "but  _ also _ considering I didn't exactly hit it at high speed, the mere fact that I managed to total it is a bit suspect."

Bruce levels him with a flat look. "Tim, I'm getting very close to donating enough money to the city to overhaul their public transportation system. In your name obviously."

Tim balks. "So, what, you'll only be philanthropic to publicly drag me?"

"I have other charities in mind, but at the rate the year is going one of you is going to force my hand." He rubs his forehead, might be fighting a losing battle against a tension headache. "So if you'd please just write the apology we can move on, and your name won't appear on every bus stop in the city."

“Really unique way to put a guy on blast,” Tim mumbles to himself. He stares down at the blank stationary with an intense, scrutinizing frown. "So you're not at all worried this could be a long con."

"You're not going to find a lot of people on your side on this one, Tim." He slides the paper just a fraction closer and picks up the pen, letting it hover in front of Tim's face until he takes it. "Write."

Fine, he knows when he’s been beaten. Tim buckles down and scribbles a couple fluffy, apologetic lines in a very loopy (but still very legible) cursive. He scribbles down his signature and hands it over to Bruce. “Happy?”

“About as much as I can be,” Bruce says. He skims the letter and nods twice. “Was that so difficult?”

“No,” he grumbles. “I want to do the right thing,” Tim says, “but I gotta make sure it’s the  _ right _ right thing, right?”

Bruce blinks. “You might’ve lost me a bit.”

“Never mind.” He’s  _ always  _ overthinking things. Tim rests his elbows on the desk and his chin in his hands. “Does this mean I’m banned from the cars again?”

“Let's give Dick a few weeks to recover,” he half jokes. “I’m not sure he’d agree with your claim that you didn’t hit the car  _ that  _ fast.”

“Agree to disagree,” Tim shrugs. “I’ve seen the way  _ he  _ drives.”

“Without crashing?”

“Bruce, you don’t have to be cruel,” he whines.

"I'm being firm-oh," he looks up, and Tim follows Bruce's eyeline to the door, and to Five giving just beyond it and peering in.

"You have a lot of nerve," Tim proclaims, skittering up from his seat to glare up at Five's squirmy face.

"I, about what, exactly?"

"Jason," Tim rolls his eyes. "First you give him the water.  _ Then  _ you vanish for like, two days, and now you're back? Unbelievable."

"Tim," Bruce calls out to him.

"Do you really think you're welcome here-"

"Tim," he says again, firmer, and despite his better judgement Tim's mouth snaps shut. He turns around to watch Bruce stride closer, and he holds out a hand to Five. "I owe you an apology."

"A  _ what  _ now!?" Tim shrieks. He clears his throat, correcting it by about a half octave. " _ This  _ is what he gets for going against your wishes? When  _ I _ do it I just get grounded!"

"There's a reason for that," Bruce placates him. He actually  _ pats his shoulder _ , as if he's not urging Tim to side with a traitor. “It’s not as if I wasn’t hoping to do the same thing.”

Five squirms, but he accepts Bruce’s hand. Weak handshake. Speaks of weak character. “I did overstep.”

“In this rare instance, it’s fine.”

Tim scoffs. “Unbelievable. Jason  _ ran away _ , you know. Because of this guy.”

“Easy, Tim.” Bruce ruffles his hair.  _ Patronizing  _ him. “He’s angry with me, not Five. And we shouldn’t worry,” he says to them both. “The gym alerted me when his card resumed use, and I’ve seen a couple charges to the incidentals card. He’ll be fine. He just needs some time to work through this.”

Bruce turns away from them, giving Tim an opening to give Five the sneer he deserves. He fidgets, picks at his blunt nails, and good golly gosh this guy knows something. “You’re looking awfully suspicious, Five.”

“It’s his resting face,” Bruce says from his desk. He’s not even  _ looking _ , but even if he does now he’s going to miss it; Five’s already schooling his expression. “Leave him alone, Tim. Why don’t you go work on that new organization system for the workshop?”

“Fine.” He walks backwards, keeping an eye trained on Five until he almost trips on the edge of the fireplace. Five slips away in the split second it takes him to turn around to hit the switch for the cave door. “I don’t know why you trust him.”

“Because I want him to be trustworthy,” Bruce explains, or thinks he explains at least. “Because he hasn’t done anything so reprehensible that I can never trust him again.”

Tim frowns. “He pretended to be you.”

“I know.” Bruce hums, chuckling to himself a little. “I’ve done my fair share.”

“I don’t get you,” he says, shaking his head. “You’ll give that guy a mile but I’m not allowed to drive a car five feet.”

“Public transport,” Bruce reminds him.

Tim waves him off and descends the stairs into the batcave. He has every intention of reorganizing the scattered bits and pieces they all use to repair and replace parts of Bruce’s (and eventually Tim’s) armor and equipment. It’s a helter-skelter disaster zone; no one bothered to label literally  _ any  _ of the little drawers full of random bits and pieces.

But there’s something else going on here, deeper than just a tantrum and some self-care. Tim glances up at the staircase, and when he’s satisfied he’s not been followed he pulls out his cell and calls Barbara Gordon.

She picks up after four rings. “Barbara.”

“Timothy,” she answers. A little smirky for his taste. This is serious business.

“I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

“No,” she laughs. “Tim, sweetheart, you don’t have to act like you’re  _ forty _ . I have friends with little brothers. I get it.”

“I know that,” he snits. He’s not exactly sure  _ why  _ he feels defensive but it’s probably justified. “I’m trying to be  _ polite _ , Babs. This is a serious matter.”

Her voice gets soft around the edges. “Worried about Jason?”

“No,” Tim scoffs. “He’s buying pizzas left and right. Good thing he’s also going to the gym.” Barbara snorts. “This is about Five.”

“Is this anything new? I already know he gave Jason Lazarus water.”

“It  _ is  _ new,” Tim insists. “He’s acting awfully suspicious.”

“Yeah?” Barbara hums. “I’m pretty sure that’s just his resting face.”

“That’s-” he sputters, “ _ why  _ do people keep pretending that’s a  _ thing _ ?” Honestly. They’re all clueless. Good thing Tim’s on the case. “I would appreciate it if you took this seriously and looked into him a little. At your earliest convenience.” He waits for a beat. “Also, I know my, ahem, attempts at managing a vehicle aren’t exactly stress free, so if you could thank Dick for helping that would be,” he pauses, “appreciated. It helps, even if it doesn’t look like it.”

“I’ll tell him,” she says. She’s probably thinking he’s being sweet or something. He just can’t afford to lose his main driving instructor to nerves. “And if you’re this certain I can do some digging. Dick already has me tracking Jason to make sure he doesn’t end up face down in a ditch.”

“Thank you.” Wait. “You’re tracking him?”

“Basically. Oh, don’t tell my dad. If he figures out I’m sneaking into the GCPD’s systems again he’ll go ballistic.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've never been satisfied with Jason Todd coming back to life because you can get him to the same place (Red Hood) without it, and here's my take of the aftermath.


End file.
